


Lover of the Light

by ember_firedrake



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Immortality, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Neil Gaiman's <i>American Gods</i>.</p>
<p>Enjolras is a god, brought to France by the Romans when it was still Gaul. As the centuries have passed, his power has faded as new deities rose.</p>
<p>--<i>He forgot what it was to be recognized. That is, until the dark-curled man looked at him, blue eyes intent though his cheeks were flushed from the liquor he’d imbibed. His mouth was curved like a bow of Eros, drawn in a smirk.</i></p>
<p><i>“Behold,” he said, “Apollo has seen fit to grace us with his presence.”</i>--</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to annundriel for the original idea, and to Lisa and Melissa for feedback ♥

It had been more than an age since anyone had called him by his true name.

The Romans kept his name, even when they had appropriated all those of his brothers and sisters to their own needs. When the Romans occupied then-Gaul, he came with—he had little choice in the matter. Where people went, their idols followed. It was some centuries later when his name was subsumed with that of his titan predecessor. They called him _Helios, Sol, Phoebus._

His power was robbed by degrees when the Bourbon king thought to fashion himself “Le Roi Soleil.” It slipped still further beneath the power of the Church, but there were always those who revered classicism. People _remembered_ his name, certainly, and every so often a painter or sculptor might try their hand at his likeness, which was the only reason he still carried on.

Some generations later the people beheaded their king. By rights, the Cult of Reason should have destroyed him, as it diminished the others of his pantheon to mere shadows if not whisking them away entirely. He was saved by the emphasis on truth, as well as the flourishing of art and music. It was not the worship he had once had, but it gave him enough strength to keep him sustained. 

It was enough. He learned to be content with that, giving himself new focus. He forgot what it was to be recognized. That is, until the dark-curled man looked at him, blue eyes intent though his cheeks were flushed from the liquor he’d imbibed. His mouth was curved like a bow of Eros, drawn in a smirk.

“Behold,” he said, “Apollo has seen fit to grace us with his presence.”

—

Apollo had changed since those days of Ancient Greece. That much was to be expected. After all, there was still some version of him there, probably much closer to what he’d been thousands of years ago. Just as there was a version of him in Rome, and anywhere else in the limits of where Trajan had conquered. He no more knew what his counterparts were up to than he did the other members of his family brought here by conquerors.

One by one, they had all faded into obscurity as they were forgotten or no longer worshipped. His sister had had no love for the city, choosing the mountains instead to hunt. He would not see her again. 

Truth be told, he was glad of their absence, for he knew they would only mock him if they saw him now. It wasn’t appropriate, after all, for the old gods to show deference to the new. 

The first time he’d seen her, he’d thought she was winged _Nike_ , come to proclaim victory for the people following the storming of the Bastille. Except she had no wings, though she strode with power and grace on her bared feet. He’d been struck by her presence, and for the first time he cared not that his own power was diminished by years; here was the worthiest of successors. She was beautiful, and it was with some surprise he realized he wanted to dedicate himself to her—that he loved her.

Not in the way he once pursued Daphne, or selfishly desired Cassandra. Not like his doomed love for Hyacinth. He hadn’t entertained thoughts of the physical for some time now—since the Christian god’s prominence had risen throughout the western world. No—his love for _Liberté_ was entirely nonphysical, transcendent to something beyond.

She hadn’t believed him at first, nor his offer of dedication. He’d watched while her ideals were twisted by the people, a reign of terror turning brother against brother. She was not as strong as her counterpart west across the sea, and a military officer’s rise to Emperor diminished her power greatly. Still, the people believed in her, even after the reestablishment of the monarchy, and it was then that he returned to her again.

“I ask nothing in return,” he said, “but I would assist your endeavor, if you permit it.”

Her gaze was not cruel, but it was direct in how it seemed to bore through him. “However earnest you are, I cannot trust one such as you,” she said. “Placing my trust in men is risk enough, even when it is for their benefit I labor. Look how the Revolution was twisted...look how easily a man of the people can become a dictator.”

Still, he was undeterred. She was one of the only ones he had seen who did not seek to subjugate others to her will. There were other considerations, too. When the people were free, arts and music flourished. It was a meager amount of energy, but it kept him sustained all the same. That wasn’t why he wanted to help, however. He truly did believe in her, if she would give him the chance to prove that.

Her gaze softened. “If you really want to help, then you must humble yourself. Live as man, among men. See the ills of the world as they do. Aspire for freedom among them.”

—

It was easy to install himself among the students, easy to create an identity and immerse himself in it. Easy to find individuals who were committed to the ideals of liberty and would be best-equipped to carry out change. For a time, he lost himself in that. He focused so thoroughly he didn’t notice, at first, the ebbing away of his power.

It wasn’t until the revolutionary meetings at the Cafe Musain, when he felt a sudden flaring, that he realized how dwindled his power had become. But here was another source, it seemed. He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, looking at the faces around the room. They were all committed to the cause, to France, to _Liberté_ —how could he be drawing on that fervor?

His first thought was Combeferre, always loyal and dedicated. But no, Combeferre was a man of logic and learning. His belief was firm, but his passions more reserved. He cared for the people, which in turn gave strength to _Liberté_. 

One by one, he considered the others of his company. The most likely candidate was perhaps Jehan, with his love of poetry and study of languages. But even such interests only gave him a passing murmur of power. Nothing like the fire he felt kindling him now. This was devotion— _belief_ —such as he hadn’t felt for over a millennia. 

(He didn’t even consider the drunk cynic in the corner, who devoted himself to nothing save his bottle. He knew his brother, at least, would feel the effects of such patronage. Dionysus was the only one of them who still thrived, feeding on the people’s ecstasy and intoxication.)

—

He could feel the tide of public opinion shifting. Had felt it years before, when _Liberté_ had first appeared. But now it seemed the fire in people’s veins had been stirred again, and they would not be quieted so easily. Their kind could always sense the subtle changes in the opinions of the masses. Most often that knowledge was met with trepidation, the awareness that their time had come, and all too soon they would be lost to memory.

He had long ago accepted his eventual demise, and instead welcomed the dogmatic shift as evidence that _Liberté_ ’s endeavours might this time prove successful. Some were old enough to remember the revolution that had deposed a king and toppled the state, the anger that had driven some of the citizens to dismantle even their own revered Church.

(He remembered seeing the heads that had been knocked from the statues of their saints on the great cathedral. He didn’t often go near the shrine, too aware of that lady’s power in the hearts of the people, but seeing those stone heads had been a humbling experience. True, they’d been removed because an ignorant populace thought they were kings—but if the people could violently dethrone their king and destroy their religious iconography, he knew his own chances weren’t very good.)

It wasn’t enough yet, however. There was still too much fear. Fear for a king, which he could never fully appreciate. Fear that another might become emperor. Fear that any uprising would be turned against the people. He needed to find a way to assuage that fear, to rally more to their cause. 

To that end, he threw himself into the cause, pouring more of his effort and energy into it. His zeal caught on amongst Les Amis, all but Grantaire, and they spent their days in planning.

It should have drained him.

He was giving too much of himself. He was _devoting_ too much of himself, and there ought to be not enough left to keep himself sustained. There was a reason gods did not take their time believing in others. 

And yet, in spite of that, he seemed to have more energy than ever. Some new fire kindled within him, leaving him invigorated. There was only one possible explanation. Amidst all the building social unrest, the gathering of support around the ideals of _Liberté_ , he had an acolyte.

—

He hadn’t expected Grantaire, of all people, to offer help in rallying people at the Barriere du Maine. His own words— _are you good for anything?_ —had been designed to wound. He had no tolerance for those who would waste his time and risk the cause. Grantaire’s response only solidified his suspicions.

“I have a vague ambition in that direction.”

His rejoinder was swift. “You don’t believe in anything.”

“I believe in you.”

The conviction in those words sent a surge of energy that left his nerves alight and tingling. He didn’t even need to see the earnestness on Grantaire’s face to know he was telling the truth, he could _feel_ it. Suddenly it all made sense, the increased strength only when the meetings at the Cafe Musain had begun. It had been Grantaire, this whole time. He wondered that he had not noticed it sooner.

It was thanks to Grantaire he even had the strength to devote himself to _Liberté_. 

Still, he prevaricated. It was at Grantaire’s offer to polish his boots that sent another thrum of life through him, and he had to close his eyes a moment against it. It had been so long, _so long_ , since he had been the object of someone’s worship. It would be all too easy to take up Grantaire’s offer for selfish reasons—but _Liberté_ ’s words echoed in his ear. _You must humble yourself._

Grantaire listed his reasons, and while he could be quite eloquent about the Republic when he chose to be, it was clear the cynic spoke not for _Liberté_ ’s benefit, but for an idol who was much nearer.

He relented, allowing Grantaire the opportunity to go to the Barriere du Maine. It was the least he could do, when really he fought the urge to pull Grantaire close by his curls, to hiss into his ear _show me the depths of your belief_. He shook imperceptibly after Grantaire left, and he reminded himself that it was no good. That all gods eventually faded—his time had come long ago.

Even _Liberté_ , though? Would she fade one day, like all the others? He had asked her, once, after Bonaparte had dismantled the first republic. 

_“The thing about freedom,” she said, “Is that even when it’s been taken away, people remember what it was like to have it.”_

_“But what if they are killed?”_

_“Then their martyrdom only makes the rest of the people take note. It makes them remember. Tyranny cannot keep hold forever. I am strengthened whenever freedom prevails, like my sister in America, or my counterpart in England whose disciples fight for the abolition of slaves. By the same token, I am strengthened when people fight for me, when they die for me.”_

_He knew this. To die for one’s god was the greatest display of faith. It far surpassed any sacrificing of entrails or burning of offerings._

_Liberté was always good at reading him, because she looked at him, not unkindly, and said, “Perhaps the greatest difference between us is how we call forth belief in others. You may not be as guilty of this, but those like you—they demand belief, or you draw power from patronage, be it arts, hunting like your sister, or wine like your brother. Freedom, however, is a natural state. It is only the cruelty of men that sees others subjugated, often from birth. How can I demand belief for something that is everyone’s by right?”_

_Liberté_ would not fade as others had, he knew this. Hers was true power, pure and unsullied. He, on the other hand, was corrupt (how easy it would have been to turn Grantaire’s offer to serve his own ends). He shook his head, banishing thoughts of the old ways. He would die for _Liberté_ ’s cause, and at least then his existence would have meaning.

—

He could sense it, when Grantaire’s convictions failed. It didn’t surprise him, and it wouldn’t have bothered him, except that Grantaire had done it to prove himself. All that devotion hinging on the Barriere du Maine, and then failure.

He staggered from the site—he’d seen enough of Grantaire’s domino game. He was weak, limbs shaking as he struggled to make his way back to his own lodgings. This was what it was to be a god almost forgotten. He was glad no others of his kind could see him at a time like this, strength sapped and diminished.

He gritted his teeth, trying not to think too hard on plans for tomorrow. Those plans were for the Republic, for _Liberté_ , and he had barely enough energy for himself at this moment. He would have to conserve it for tomorrow if he wanted to do any good. 

When pounding sounded on his door later, he tried to ignore it. The noise continued, permeating his attempt at sleep, and he could feel rather than see it was Grantaire. An edge of vitality had returned to him, and there could be no other explanation for his nighttime visitor.

He opened the door, revealing an incredibly intoxicated Grantaire. His hair was a dark and tangled mess, his eyes sunken. That face was drawn in the most pitiful expression he’d ever seen. Those lips, the upper curved like a bow, were pressed thin.

“I failed you...I’m so sorry,” Grantaire said.

His nostrils flared at the smell of wine mingled with absinthe on Grantaire’s breath. “Go from here, Grantaire. You’re drunk.”

“Give me another chance, please.” 

He closed his eyes. The pleading in Grantaire’s face was too much, but it was nothing compared the the conviction in his voice. Even now, he could feel his own strength returning, buoyed on the devotion in Grantaire’s tone. He wasn’t paying attention to Grantaire’s excuses, the reasons why he’d failed at the Barriere du Maine—but then Grantaire said, plaintive, “Please, I will do anything.”

He opened his eyes, gaze gone sharp. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Grantaire met his gaze, unblinking in spite of his intoxication, his eyes wide. “Name it, Apollo, and I will do whatever you want.” 

He flinched at the sound of his name. It seemed to course through him, and was it only an hour ago he’d been barely strong enough to walk? Vitality returned, and with it awareness of an old ability. He was _Apollo Belenus_ , bright god of healing and the sun. He could _heal_ , though he hadn’t done so for hundreds of years. He thought he might be able to, now.

He reached out with his hands, placing them on either side of Grantaire’s temples, and focused. Grantaire staggered as the inebriation of alcohol was suddenly burned away, leaving him sober and wide-eyed and more than a little frightened. 

Though he stood only a little taller than Grantaire, his presence seemed to fill the room. He hadn’t allowed his true essence to show in ages, hadn’t openly revealed himself in far longer. He towered metaphorically as he looked down into those pale blue eyes, and said, “Look now upon your _Apollo_ , and know what it is you ask.”

Grantaire swallowed as he stood back, awe replacing fear. “But...how?” There was no disbelief, however.

“I am older than you know,” he said, and there was no bitterness in his words. “My time is done, and soon I will die, but not before I have had the chance to see this task done.”

There was a fierce protectiveness on Grantaire’s face as he spoke of his impending mortality, but it was there and gone in an instant. The man took a hesitating step forward, so there was barely a breath of space between them. “I stand by what I said. What can I do for you?”

There it was again, the impulse to let Grantaire do as he wanted. The impulse to _take_. But he was reminded again of _Liberté_ speaking of the old gods— _they demand belief_. He could not deny now that Grantaire’s belief in him had kept him sustained these past months, but it was wrong to expect more.

“I would ask nothing that you do not freely offer,” he said.

Grantaire reached out, tentative, brushing his cheek with the backs of knuckles. “I offer myself.” It was murmured. 

He drew in a breath as Grantaire sank slowly to his knees, hands bracketing his hips. “I offer this,” Grantaire said solemnly.

“I cannot ask that of you,” he said.

“I give it freely, if you will accept it.”

Was it selfish, to want what was freely given? To want to feel wanted.

“ _Yes._ ”

Grantaire fell forward, hands fumbling towards the buttons of his trousers. The touches were fleeting but reverent, and he sighed into the contact, feeling invigorated. His blond hair cascaded around his face like a curtain as he looked down at Grantaire. Grantaire, who was now palming the hard length of him, leaning forward to wrap curved lips around the head, until he was surrounded by hot suction. 

His sigh became a groan under Grantaire’s ministrations. Grantaire’s tongue was talented, seeming to wring every cry and sharp draw of breath from him. There was more, though. Everything about Grantaire’s bearing said this was a form of devotion. Eyes closed as if in prayer. Lips and tongue a gentle but insistent pressure. Grantaire kneeled before his god in worship.

He could not help but feel the effects of such veneration. Aside from the very physical reactions of his body, he was alight with power. His nerves tingled from the new life that coursed through him, unaccustomed after subsisting on so little for so long. 

He cradled the sides of Grantaire’s face, his fingers tangling in dark hair, a gentle pressure. Grantaire peered up at him through a dark spread of lashes, humming approval. He gasped, his eyes falling shut.

Grantaire’s lips slipped off him. “I want to see you.”

It was a simple request, and he couldn’t deny it. Grantaire’s attentions had left his spirit invigorated, and as he opened his eyes he could _see_ it. It seemed to light up his veins, so his whole body radiated with a soft glow of pale light. 

Grantaire let out an awed breath. “You’re beautiful.”

Grantaire’s head was tilted upwards, neck an enticing curve. Dexterous hands hadn’t stopped their movements, and already he could feel himself racing towards an inevitable conclusion.

“I’m—”

“ _Yes,_ ” Grantaire said, illuminated by the glow that emanated from him. 

He came, and Grantaire held him through it, aiming his release so it anointed his features. Grantaire’s face was one of ecstasy, and as the last drops spilled upon those curved lips, a tongue darted out to taste.

He trembled. Never before had he experienced such worship. He felt altered, made new by Grantaire’s offering. He traced his fingers across Grantaire’s face, consecrating him as he might with scented oils. Grantaire, for his part, had a hand over the front of his own trousers, and before he could offer to help, let out a ragged groan.

They remained thus for a moment, both of them reluctant to move. He no longer glowed, but he still felt as though he brimmed with power. Finally Grantaire shifted, and he pulled him in, unwilling, perhaps, to be left alone again. He’d been solitary for such a long time. Grantaire gasped, going to wipe his face on his shirtsleeves.

He was the one who started the kiss. It was tentative, a long-forgotten memory that gained familiarity as their lips slid against one another. They lay on the bed like that, until something even more unfamiliar, sleep, took him.

—

_Liberté_ was there in his dream. As always, there was no judgment on her face. She regarded him , curiosity in her dark eyes.

“Are you disappointed in me?” he asked. “For giving in to temptation?”

He could not say that he was sorry, but her opinion of him still mattered. 

She shook her head. “Quite the contrary. You’ve never been more human.”

An eon ago, that would have offended him. He was once among the most important of his pantheon. Now, it filled him with trepidation that he didn’t know what was to come. Prophesy had once been among his abilities, but that had been lost to him, and he no longer saw the way ahead. 

Still, he looked to his left, where Grantaire curled against him. An arm was possessively slung across him, and he felt a foreign ache in his chest. If feeling _wanted_ was to feel human, then he welcomed it.

“The time is almost upon us,” _Liberté_ said. “I ride upon the crest of a wave, though I cannot tell if it will carry the people with it, or break against the bonds of tyranny.”

“I will be there, whatever the outcome,” he said.

—

_You’ve never been more human._

Only later did he recognize it for the compliment it was. _Liberté_ fought for humanity, and had always regarded them higher than any gods, old or new. His spirit was newly rekindled in more ways than one. 

He looked around the Cafe Musain, seeming to see Les Amis in a new light. They were comrades, not just to each other, but to him. Combeferre, with his philosophical eloquence, debated with Feuilly on man’s virtues. Joly and Bossuet were engaged in animated conversation with Courfeyrac, Prouvaire composed writings while he endured good-natured ribbing from Bahorel. Only Grantaire seemed quiet, regarding him with curiosity while a hand played across the neck of a bottle, though he hardly partook.

It was more than them that _Liberté_ held in high regard. They had dubbed themselves the friends of the abased, and it was for the abased they would rise up. But no transference of power came without its casualties. He thought of the Ouranos and Gaia, of Chronos and Rhea. Each was violently defeated by the generation that came after. Some had even speculated he would overthrow his own father—though Zeus’ demise had been far less dramatic and glorious. The god of thunder had faded into obscurity, unwilling to bend in the face of the newer gods, until it proved to be his undoing. 

He thought it ironic that the prophecies had been half-right. He had outlived Zeus, though not through patricide or a coup of power.

This people’s coup, even if it proved successful, would not be bloodless. For the first time he was acutely aware of what the cost might be, as he looked again at his friends. For the first time he considered what freedom might mean to all of them, instead of only thinking of freedom’s deified personification.

—

Too soon, _Liberté_ ’s words proved true. The barricades were assembled, and they made ready to hold their positions against the National Guard.

He still had an abundance of energy, and could tell Grantaire’s regard for him had not waned, though Grantaire was unusually withdrawn in the dark evening hours while their comrades slept in shifts. Usually this was the time of greatest excess, when libations to Dionysus would be poured. 

“What ails you, Grantaire?”

“Can you not see it? What stake do you have here, Apollo, that you would needlessly risk yourself? Or are you immune to musket fire?”

He frowned. “No. Once, perhaps, I would have been, but I have been so diminished from my days of glory—I fear I am as mortal as the rest of you when it comes to bullets.”

Grantaire’s eyes were pleading. “Then why put yourself in this position? What have you to gain, except your own demise? What does it matter to you?”

Now he felt a spark of anger deep within him. “What is there to _gain_? Grantaire, have you listened to nothing of our meetings? I fight for the freedom of the people. I am not the marble god you think I am—I have found new purpose.”

“Yes, yes, I know, in your beloved _Patria_. But she is as unattainable as this freedom for which you so fruitlessly strive.”

Anger surged, and with it recklessness. He did not know what would happen to him if he rejected Grantaire now, but he could not bear the insult. He stood, allowing his godhood to shine through as his presence towered. Grantaire only winced briefly at the brightness issuing forth from him, but stood his ground.

“If that is truly your opinion, Grantaire, then I wonder that you are even capable of belief at all. Belief, or thought, or will...life or death.”

At once, he let the brightness diminish. Grantaire staggered as though slapped. The hurt was evident in those eyes, and something else too—some measure of gentleness.

“You will see,” Grantaire whispered after a long moment, leaving to curl up by a table.

After such a harsh rebuff, he expected what energy he’d recently garnered would drain entirely. How could Grantaire still venerate him after that? As he went to check over their preparations for the morrow, however, he found the fire of Grantaire’s esteem for him only seemed to burn the greater. He couldn’t understand it, nor the foreign emotion that now twisted his gut.

It was regret.

—

It was his greatest regret when he found himself surrounded by soldiers, about to be gunned down. He was weakened—but that was his own fault, spreading himself too thin as he valiantly fought for _Liberté_.

He regretted, too, the lives of the others who had been lost. They were all let down by the very people they tried to save. The people had not risen, and so one by one his friends had fallen. Each named weighed heavily on him, and he wondered how inspired to affect change they would have been if not for his rousing them with speeches. They had known the risks, however, and even when he had given them a chance to leave the barricade, they had elected to remain.

He hadn’t seen Grantaire since the fighting had begun, and his greatest regret now was that he couldn’t apologize. He wouldn’t have gotten this far without Grantaire, and the cynic deserved better than the fallen idol who now bared his breast to the soldiers’ rifles. It was the most glorious death he could achieve, and he only hoped it would give _Liberté_ enough strength, though their venture had failed.

He hoped the people remembered, and the day would not be too distant in the future when they would have the strength to rise up and claim freedom for themselves.

A shout rang out from the other side of the room. “Long live the Republic!”

Grantaire was there, shouldering past the line of soldiers. Those blue eyes were wide, filled with a terrible fear at seeing him so close to death. 

“Long live the Republic,” Grantaire repeated, placing himself in front of the guns. “Finish us both in one blow.”

Then Grantaire turned so they faced on another. The expression on that face was gentle as he said to his god, “Do you permit it?”

His throat was dry, so stunned was he at Grantaire’s display of bravery. It was more than that, though. He remembered what Grantaire had said before laying worship to his body. _I offer myself_. Grantaire was literally offering to die for him. There was no greater sacrifice, no greater show of faith. Was Grantaire conscious of it? Was he aware of the power it would grant his idol?

Enough power to turn back death.

But, he realized, he no longer cared for immortality. Certainly, he wished he could do more, but he had resigned himself to oblivion long ago, and knew his death would serve _Liberté_. His life could serve her just as well, he reasoned. He had learned things, become more human in his heart, and understood now what it was she wished to achieve.

He had become more human, and he understood what it was to love. The thought of Grantaire dying for him filled his chest with the ache of regret, that he had never put to words what Grantaire clearly felt for him. 

He smiled, taking Grantaire’s hand. The grasp imbued him with strength, and he felt radiant. 

He would survive, he knew that—so firm was Grantaire’s belief, so pure his sacrifice. Would he have enough power remaining to him to heal Grantaire’s wounds? Would he be able to dislodge bullets, knit flesh to its original state? He hadn’t been strong enough to save Hyacinth so many ages ago, but pride and vanity had gotten in the way then. 

Perhaps he would have just enough to restore life, and let nature and fate take care of the rest. He would gladly abandon immortality for the chance to be human by Grantaire’s side, not as his Apollo, but as the name he’d adopted among the students. As Enjolras. He would never abandon the cause of _Liberté_ , but it was better, perhaps, to pursue a shining ideal than to idolize the personification of one.

The report of musket fire roared in his ears.


End file.
